The Literary Agent
by Barley Shadow
Summary: John Shooter's quest to eliminate Mort and his new girlfriend. Humor, bad language (mainly what the ratings for,) Mort's bad writing, suspense. (Complete.)
1. Bouncing

Ok guys. I didn't have a clue about doing italics and stuff, so I haven't included them.  
  
Because Mort's head is a really confusing place to be sometimes, I'm gonna try and help you out a bit. The writing written inbetween the :::'s is what the person inside Mort's body says to the person who is Mort. Confused? Ok, Shooter starts off in the :::'s but later on when Shooter appears to Clementine and Mort's inside him Mort is in the :::'s. And the ()'s are what the outside charcter says replying to them. So, none of the ::: or () speech is heard by anyone other than Mort and Shooter. That better? I hope so.  
  
Disclaimer (I love these, but I'm not gonna put one for every chapter): I do not own Secret Window, or any of the characters, although I do own Clementine, yadda yadda yadda, I do not own Johnny Depp and I don't wish I did, although I'm sure he's a lovely person. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter One: Bouncing  
  
Knock knock.  
  
I roll over.  
  
Knock knock.  
  
I groan.  
  
Knock knock.  
  
"FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!"  
  
I open the door, there stands a beautiful woman, of about twenty three, short, straight black hair with blue tips and blue roots, in a black pinstripe suit, holding a book and wearing flattering unrimmed glasses.  
  
I'm clad in a very unflattering pair of black jogging pants, grey polo and an old dressing gown that's seen better days. Hello sex god.  
  
"Um, hello?" I say, a little sleepily as I've been in Z-land for about 18 hours now.  
  
"Mr. Rainey?" she inquires.  
  
"Yes, that would be me," I reply.  
  
"I'm from the literary agency, we haven't received your cheque," she says, very business-like. Just to show I'm a nice person, and because she is very pretty I let her in. She stands by the door.  
  
"I was gonna post it," I say, scrabbling around to find the bloody cheque. Table, nope, not there, I take the stairs two at a time, desk, nope, not there either. Where the fuck did I put it? I jump back down the stairs, looking in the kitchen.  
  
:::Why would it be in the kitchen?:::  
  
"I don't know," I whine, frustrated.  
  
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rainey?" she asks.  
  
"Um, nothing. Don't worry about it. This might take me a minute, do you want a beer, or a drink?"  
  
"Do you have mineral water?" she asks. I open the fridge. Mineral water.  
  
:::Why would she want a beer? Look at what she's wearing, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
"Don't judge a book by it's cover," I mumble. She sits down on the couch and I look for a glass. There's four or five in the sink, but they're all dirty. Just my luck, the day a smouldering sex goddess turns up at my door I haven't got any fucking clean glasses. I quickly wipe one of them clean and pour her a drink. I hand it to her. After a minute or two looking for the cheque, I locate my cheque book.  
  
"I'll write you another one," I say, now looking for a pen. Pocket? Nope, but why would I put a pen in a useful place like that? Oh look, there's one in the trash. But what's she gonna think if she sees me digging around in the trash? Nope, I don't care. I get the pen and hurriedly write out another cheque. Bloody literary agency, cost more than they're damn worth. But they do have very attractive employees. I hand her the cheque.  
  
"What's your name?" I ask, trying to sound casual.  
  
"Clementine," she replies.  
  
"Clementine," I repeat.  
  
"No, Clementine, the e makes it a hard vowel, I," she says, smiling a little.  
  
How many ways can there be so pronounce Clementine?  
  
:::Two, dumbass.:::  
  
(Piss off.)  
  
"Thank you Mr. Rainey," she says, politely. I show her out. She gets into her very posh Dodge and drives away.  
  
Now I can get back to doing what I do best.  
  
:::And that's not writing, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(Sure it is, I'm just a good sleeper too.) I lay down on the couch.  
  
Knock knock.  
  
Piss off.  
  
Knock knock.  
  
I open the door.  
  
Clementine. Two days and she's back for more.  
  
"Clementine," I say.  
  
"Mr. Rainey," she says politely. "Can I come in?" Of course you can come in, you're gorgeous. Oh yeah, and it's pissing it down outside. She comes in.  
  
"So, why're you back so soon?" I ask, I don't mind you being back, in fact, I like it when you're here. I wonder why?  
  
:::Because you want to. . .:::  
  
(I know that.)  
  
"Your cheque bounced," she states. I'm a little taken aback.  
  
"Bounced?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Rainey, bounced."  
  
What do you want me to do about it?  
  
"You'll be withdrawn from the agency's books if a feasible cheque is not received within three days," she says.  
  
"Thank you for outlining my legal status," I say, why the fuck am I being sarcastic? I'll never get her in bed if I'm sarcastic. Great, this means I gotta spend half an hour looking for the other cheque book.  
  
"Listen, Clementine," I say. "I'm coming into town tomorrow, so why don't I save us a lot of time looking for a cheque book that's probably at the bottom of the lake, and I'll drop your cheque off tomorrow?"  
  
"Alright, Mr. Rainey," she agrees, turning to leave. God, I'm sending her away again, what's wrong with me?  
  
:::Where do you want me to start?:::  
  
(Shut up, Shooter.) She leaves, getting into her car. Nope, she doesn't leave, wonder why she does that. She's back at my door.  
  
"Couldn't get enough eh?" I ask. Oh, my, God.  
  
"I'm out of gas," she says, "Have you got any spare in your truck?"  
  
Yes, I have. But I'm gonna get fucking soaked if I go out there, and try to fill up that bloody huge Dodge. She'll probably only get a mile outta here before it conks out again and then she'll really be stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere.  
  
"Yeah, I got some, but it won't be enough to get you back into town," I say.  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Ok, I'll get dressed," I'm still wearing unflattering black joggers and grey polo, old stripy dressing gown two days later, now with even bigger rip in the shoulder due to bloody cat. "And I'll drive you into town to get some more, then we'll come back and fill the Dodge up." She doesn't have a choice. It's either that, or stay here with me. Actually, that won't help her either, but I wouldn't mind. Nope, not in the least.  
  
Anyway, I try and find some jeans, and try and look respectable, which is a bloody hard thing to try and do. But I find jeans, a black button up shirt with a collar, and some unrimmed glasses. Wow I look stuck up. We could almost have been a married couple. Except today she's wearing a white suit. With a skirt, showing me her adorably soft looking legs. God, she can't shave them, they're too nice, she doesn't look like a wax girl either, probably gets them threaded somewhere in the city. Suddenly the literacy agency fees are alright, if I'm paying for her to get her legs threaded then it's not that bad.  
  
We run out and get in my truck. She seems a little put off by the amounts of cigarette ends and empty bottles, machete and the other assortments of crap in the truck. Anyway, it's her only choice. I start it up, and turn around, headed into town.  
  
"So," I begin. If she's this cute, she's worth talking to. "What possessed you to work at the literacy agency?"  
  
"It's just a job. I want to be an author, poet, journalist, something that involves writing and creativity. Literacy agency just seemed like a good place to get some cash to start out with. Budding authors have a lot of rejects, and they don't pay anything."  
  
Don't I know it.  
  
"So I write at the weekends, and work during the week, I wanna get some little place, secluded, where I can write, and not be disturbed. You've got the perfect place, I can understand why you moved here."  
  
You could always stay with me.  
  
"I know, I love it. Loads of peace and quiet. Except when the literacy agency keeps banging on your door wanting money," I say, joking.  
  
"Hey, I'm just doing my job, Mr. Rainey," she says.  
  
"I know." We're at the gas station. I fill up the spare tanks in the back of the truck with gas and get back in the front. Fucking drenched.  
  
"Mr. Rainey, you're wet," she says.  
  
:::I know that you bitch.:::  
  
(Piss off, Shooter. It's not her fault.)  
  
:::She could have filled up the tank herself, she's the reason we're all the way out here, Mr. Rainey. It was fine just the two of us.:::  
  
(Shooter, she's from the literacy agency, she's not moving in, ok?)  
  
:::You want her to though.:::  
  
(Just, go away.)  
  
"I know I'm wet. Is your suit dry clean only?"  
  
"No." I flick her with water and she squeals. Serves you right.  
  
Back at the house she totters over to her car, her red stilettos sinking into the now muddy ground, and I fill up her tank.  
  
"Thanks for all the help, Mr. Rainey," she says out of the window. "I'll see you tomorrow with the cheque." And she's gone. Ah yes, the unavoidable cheque. Better start looking for cheque book, I've got to find it before tomorrow.  
  
A/N: Like? Then review! Didn't like? Review anyway! Next chapter up very soon. 


	2. Chick

Chapter Two: Chick  
  
Cheque book was under the toaster. Why the fuck did I put it there? Oh yeah, can't make toast without a toaster, and you can't have toast without writing a cheque out first. But hey, Clementine'll be at the agency, maybe I could ask her out.  
  
:::No you couldn't.:::  
  
(Yes, I could. What's wrong with that? We're two respectable people, who might be attracted to one another.)  
  
:::Respectable? Respectable my ass.:::  
  
(Just cos there's a murdering psychopath locked inside my head doesn't mean that I'm not respectable.) I get a can out of the fridge.  
  
:::What if she got a boyfriend?:::  
  
(Then she'll say no, ok Shooter? Have you got a problem with me being happy at all? Do you have to outdo yourself, every day, to make sure I'm miserable?)  
  
:::Yup.:::  
  
(Well alright then.) I pull on jeans and a black shirt. Nope, can't wear that, wore that yesterday and apart from being caked in mud she'll think I never wash my clothes.  
  
:::You don't.:::  
  
(She doesn't need to know that. Just like she doesn't need to know you, so go fuck off somewhere.) I find a cream shirt, that's better, and a pair of black jeans.  
  
At the agency I ask for her. She comes out of her office, and I give her the cheque, I wonder when she's next having her legs done?  
  
"Clementine?" I ask her.  
  
"Mr. Rainey?" she replies.  
  
"Mort, please. I was, just wondering, if you fancied going out some time?"  
  
"With you?"  
  
:::No, with Jesus Christ.:::  
  
"Yeah, with me."  
  
"I'd love to Mr. Rainey!"  
  
"Are you, free tonight?  
  
"Yes. I'll drive up to yours at seven."  
  
"Twenty first century chick."  
  
Why did I say chick? Why couldn't I have said girl? Why did I have to say chick?  
  
:::Why did you have to say anything?:::  
  
"I'll see you Mort."  
  
:::So, you've asked the pretty literacy girl out on a date. Where you gonna go?:::  
  
(I have no idea.)  
  
Movie. No, not enough talking. Restaurant. Maybe. Boating on the lake.  
  
:::It's fucking February asshole.:::  
  
(I was only saying.)  
  
Restaurant it is.  
  
"Clementine, can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"It's just, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but, you must know that I'm a psychopathic mass-murderer," I joke. Should I joke about this? Ah, why not? "So, I was just wondering why you don't seem scared about me."  
  
"Well," she puts down her fork. Damn, I just ruined everything. "On the TV they said you had split personalities. A friend of mine has that, she just, flips out, you know? One minute she'll be ok, and then the next she's some weird lady who beats up her husband. Her hubby's alright now, she just put him in hospital for two weeks, could have been worse. But she gets these drugs from the drugstore and she's fine. You're taking drugs, right?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, course." They're taste like shit and are under the filing cabinet, of course I take them regularly.  
  
"Before she got those, she couldn't control this other woman, so I assume it's similar with you, you didn't kill those people, your other personality did."  
  
"He's called Shooter." Why does she want to know that?  
  
:::Because Mr. Rainey, sooner of later she's gonna be introduced to me.:::  
  
(No she's not, why are you even here? God, it's not like I can even give you fifty bucks and tell you not to be back until tomorrow.)  
  
"Shooter."  
  
"Yeah, he's from Mississippi, he's a dairy farmer. He wears a big black hat, and likes playing with the rim of it. So, if you see him anytime, just run away."  
  
The evening went quite well. And then she invited herself back up to my place. And I couldn't turn her down, she was very pretty, midnight blue dress, plenty of cleavage, how could I have turned that down? Anyway, we go back up to mine, and sit down with a beer each.  
  
"So, Mr. Rainey. Mort," she slurs, in a state of semi-drunkenness. "Did you make this house?"  
  
If I said yes would she believe me?  
  
"No, I didn't make the house." She gets up and goes into the kitchen, looking around in the cupboards. God knows why. She gets another beer and sits back down. The cat comes and sits on the table.  
  
"What's your cat called?"  
  
"Eeek." She strokes the cat.  
  
"You seem like a dog person."  
  
"I, had a dog."  
  
"Did he die?" Tears well up in her eyes.  
  
"Yes, he did. So I thought I'd get a cat instead."  
  
"Oh Mr. Mort. I'm sorry your dog died."  
  
"It was a few years back now, I'm ok about it." She snuggles up inside my arms. Should I really do this when she's drunk? Do I stoop that low?  
  
:::Yes you do, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(Thanks for your subtlety Shooter.)  
  
:::You're welcome, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
No, I don't. Not when she's drunk. I'll let her pass out on the sofa, and take her home in the morning. But for now, I think I'll do what I do best.  
  
:::Sleep?:::  
  
(No, write. Actually, I'll look for those split personality drug things. Then I'll show you where you can piss off to.) 


	3. Flushed

Chapter Three: Flushed  
  
She was jus' sittin' on the sofa, I could have killed her then, but I din't want to, no sir. She was far too purty lookin'.  
  
:::Shooter you god damn son of a bitch!:::  
  
(Now now, Mr. Rainey. Calm down.)  
  
:::If you hurt her Shooter I swear to God I'll. . .:::  
  
(I ain't gonna hurt her Mr. Rainey. I might need her.)  
  
:::You sick fuck!:::  
  
(I ain't gonna do that either.) It didn't take long for her to wake up, and when she saw my hat she ran. (You shouldn't have told her 'bout my hat, Mr. Rainey. I might have to hurt her now.)  
  
:::I don't think so Shooter. You'll never see her again.:::  
  
(How can you bee so sure 'bout that, Mr. Rainey? You gonna take those drugs of yours? You gonna take those drugs I've flushed down the toilet into the lake?)  
  
:::You bastard Shooter!:::  
  
(Clementine. . .)  
  
:::It's Clementine, dumbass. There's an e on the end so it pronounced I.:::  
  
(Clementine's gone Mr. Rainey. She knows you haven't been takin' your pills, and she knows you won't never take 'em. And I kinda like it like this, jus' you and me, Mr. Rainey. Jus' you and me.) 


	4. Snore

Chapter Four: Snore  
  
(Shooter you God damn bastard! What the fuck did you do to her?)  
  
:::She ran away, Mr. Rainey. She jus' ran away. Far away from you as she could get. An' I don't say I blame her.:::  
  
(Well I wasn't asking for your opinion Shooter.) I get in the car. More bloody drugs are gonna cost me a bomb, what'd Shooter have to get rid of them for anyway? Stupid bastard.  
  
Drugs did cost a bomb. I'm two minds whether to stop by at the literary agency to see Clementine.  
  
:::You're always in two minds, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(Nah uh Mr. Shooter, you're mind is a mystery, even to me. But if it'll keep you happy.) I was in three minds whether to stop by at the literary agency to see Clementine, that better?  
  
:::That it is, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(Thanks for your concern.) And in the end I do.  
  
"Mr. Rainey," she says, a little nervously.  
  
"Listen, Clementine. I know you saw Shooter last night, I just wanted to stop by and see if you were ok."  
  
"That's nice of you Mr. Rainey."  
  
"Mort. So, you're ok?"  
  
"Yes, I'm alright Mort."  
  
"I'm so sorry you had to see him. I got some new drugs, hopefully they'll work better."  
  
Of course they'll work better, you weren't even taking the old ones.  
  
"Right, Mr. Rainey, Mort."  
  
"Clementine, you're scared of me."  
  
"No, I'm not, Mort. I'm just a little spooked out right now."  
  
"Sure, I understand. I think someone wants you." Some smartass is signalling over from the other side of the office. She turns away and looks. I leave.  
  
Now you've gone and done it, Shooter. Shit, shit, shit. Now she's never gonna trust me. I go back home and fall asleep on the sofa.  
  
Ring ring!!!  
  
I roll over.  
  
Ring ring!!!  
  
I groan.  
  
Ring ring!!!  
  
"FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!"  
  
I pick up the phone.  
  
"Mort?"  
  
"Clementine?"  
  
"Yes, Mort. I was just wondering, what you were doing tonight, I was gonna ask you this morning, but, I was still a bit spooked about last night, you know? Maybe, maybe it would work better, if we give it another try."  
  
Tonight? What's the time? Fuck, half past eight? I've slept all day. Bloody split personality pills, sleeping pills, what's the bloody difference? Shit.  
  
"I'm, I'm free, this evening, Clementine."  
  
"Great, I'm outside."  
  
"You're what?" I'm a bit stunned. I peek out of the curtains. She is, indeed, outside. So, I open the door. She's not dressed up, jeans and tee shirt, we're not going anywhere particularly expensive. That's ok by me.  
  
"Hey, Clementine."  
  
"Hey Mort." She comes in. "You look a bit underdressed." She's right, I have on my black jogging pants, and my dressing gown, that is it. "Well, I didn't want to go anywhere anyway. I just wanted to be here with you for a while." She gets a beer out of the fridge.  
  
:::Does she live here now, Mr. Rainey?:::  
  
(No, she doesn't Shooter.)  
  
"Alright, but you're only having one of those, I don't want you drunk like last night."  
  
"Yeah, I figured that had been pretty bad. I couldn't remember much, I think that's why I go so wound up about Shooter, you know?"  
  
Awkward silence.  
  
"So, these are your new drugs, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, at least with these if Shooter comes back I can snore him to death." We both curl up on the sofa.  
  
"Make you sleepy huh?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Well, I don't want you to fall asleep. You'd be no good to me then."  
  
What?  
  
:::What?:::  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just wanted to say, that I'm really attracted to you."  
  
"You're not so bad yourself." She leans in for a kiss. What do I do?  
  
:::Kiss her back, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(For once, Shooter, you're talking sense.) So I kiss her. 


	5. Angels

Chapter Five: Angels  
  
We both woke up on the sofa. Did I kiss her last night? Did I sleep with her last night? I don't think I did. Anyway. It's snowed during the night and the doors opened itself, bloody door. So I'm freezing.  
  
"Morning, Mr. Rainey," she says. When did she wake up?  
  
"Morning, Clementine."  
  
"Snow! I love the snow!" So she drags me outside to play in the snow. It's kinda cool, she throws a huge snowball at me, so I scoop up some of the soft stuff and tuck it down the back of her tee shirt. And now she's mad. She's so cute when she's mad. Even so, I decide to run away. But, I don't get very far as she runs up behind me and pounces on me, tucking her legs up like in a piggy back and shoving snow in my face, I silently thanked the guy that told me I needed glasses. So now I can't see, and we're going slightly downhill and it's a bit uneven, so I trip and we both stumble to the ground, laying in the snow, which is ok if you're fully dressed, which I wasn't.  
  
She is pretty. I look down at her, as we had fallen to the ground I landed on top of her, but she was laughing so she wasn't hurt. She is pretty. She leans up a little and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, quickly followed by snow. She scrambles up as I try and wipe it off of my face. I'll get her. She's running back towards the house so I follow, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a proper hug, and giving her a proper kiss.  
  
"Shit. It's Friday. I'm meant to be at work!"  
  
"Ahh. That's one of the privileges of being self employed and working from home. Call in sick," I suggest.  
  
"With pneumonia," she giggles. She's cute when she laughs, and isn't planning a snowball attack, that deserves another kiss. This time, it's a much deeper kiss, she's pretty dominant in her kissing though, hey, where's my masculinity gone? Anyway, she wraps her arms around my neck, and for a moment, we just kiss in the snow, oblivious to everything else in the world, and then, it begins to snow again, how romantic. When she finally breaks away from the kiss, she leaps over the ever growing mounds of snow to the bottom of the garden, and writes her name in bold capitals in the snow, following suit, I write mine too.  
  
"There's one more thing we haven't done," she says, and then pulls me to the ground, actually, she's pretty dominant in everything she does, not just kissing. This time, she's on top, but I don't think that's what she's got in mind, and she rolls off of me, waving her arms up and down in the snow creating a snow angel above her name. After we'd made a few angels we got up to go inside.  
  
"Hmm, I don't really want get pneumonia." I lift her up bridal style and carry her over the threshold, and put her down on the sofa. "Can I use your phone."  
  
"Sure." She lifts up the receiver. "Hey, Bonny. Nit's ne, Dementine, I got a really nad nold, and I won't be in today, I'm at nome, nin bed, wit a buge nile nof nissue's. So I nee you tonorrow." And she hung up.  
  
"Have you ever considered being an actor?"  
  
"No, am I good?" she asks.  
  
"You're very good."  
  
"Can I have a shower? I'm cold now," she asks.  
  
"No," I say, in revenge for dragging me out into the snow. "You wanted to go in the snow, you knew it would be cold, you cannot take advantage of me like that Clementine." She makes puppy dog eyes at me. "Sure you can have a shower." She heads to the bathroom and I sit down by my laptop with a beer. I'm paying the literary agency, I might as well write, right? Otherwise I may as well keep my money. I open a new Word document, and think. I'm still thinking. I'm still thinking and playing with a slinky. I can't think, I close the laptop. Why can't I think?  
  
:::Because you thinkin' of Clementine in the shower, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(God not you again.)  
  
:::Yes, Mr. Rainey, me again. And you know I'm right.:::  
  
(Ok, Shooter, you're right, I am thinking of Clementine in the shower, will you please leave now?)  
  
:::You haven't written in a while, Mr. Rainey. Have you written at all since she first stood on your doorstep, wanting your money?:::  
  
(She didn't want my money, the literary agency wanted my money, and no, I haven't written since then. Writers block you know, it's probably your fault.) I switch the computer off and sit down on the couch.  
  
:::My fault, Mr. Rainey? I don't think it's my fault.:::  
  
(Shooter, are you just here to completely piss up my life with any decent woman who I happen to meet?)  
  
:::Why no, Mr. Rainey. I'm beginnin' to like her too. I'll let you have your fun. :::  
  
(You're very kind, Shooter. Goodbye.)  
  
:::Goodbye.:::  
  
"Mort?" Clementine shouts from the bathroom.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Will you get me a towel?" Sure I'll get you a towel. I head into the bedroom and look in the closet, pulling out a big while towel. I knock on the bathroom door.  
  
"It's unlocked!" she calls. She wants me to go in there, with the towel? Is she still in the shower? I'll just have to put my fears behind me, and go in. I open the bathroom door, it's very steamy inside and Clementine is still in the shower. She pulls the door to the side and holds an arm out.  
  
"You want me to put it in your hand too?" I ask. The hand just points a finger and beckons me towards the shower. Obediently, I get closer to the shower and Clementine rears her head, and takes the towel.  
  
"Thank you," she says, wrapping the towel around her and stepping out of the shower, her wet hair falls mattedly around her face, exposing patches of black and blue. "You are no longer needed, Mr. Rainey," she speaks with a posh accent.  
  
"Right, I know when I'm not wanted," I reply, and turn to leave.  
  
"Mr. Rainey?" she calls after me. I turn to look at her. "You are wanted." She slinks over to me and rests a hand on my shoulder. Oh, I'm wanted?  
  
"But I'm not needed? You know, you're gonna have to think seriously about the signals you're giving off." Just before I let her lips make contact with mine, I scoop her off her feet and carry her into the kitchen, and out of the door. "Right, now you're the one not dressed lets see how you like it in the snow." I set her down on the edge of the wooden deck by the lake and walk back through the snow to the house. She adjusts her towel.  
  
"Mr. Rainey, you can't just leave me here!" she shouts, moving her feet to keep them from getting cold on the icy deck. I know I can't leave you there, you're just too cute. But I can't go back for her, because she's already braved the snow on her bare feet and tackled me to the floor, and guess what, I'm on the bottom, getting very wet and very cold while she almost uses me as an island to keep her feet dry. The only good thing is, the towel won't stretch, and as she's straddled me she can't move much for fear of exposing herself. I run my hands up her thighs, and she lets go of the towel that is still wrapped and tucked around her to push me further back into the snow.  
  
"Clementine? You're no snow angel."  
  
A car pulls up in the drive and we both hurry to get up. A youngish man gets out of the car, probably in his mid twenties, dark hair, jeans and rock band hoodie.  
  
"Johnny!" Clementine exclaims, holding the towel tightly round her, standing on the wooden porch. Who is this guy?  
  
"Clementine? I thought you were pulling a sickie," he says. "You'll be doing overtime for this you know."  
  
"Sure," she replies, moving her feet about on the deck. "Mort this is my boss, boss, Mort," she introduces.  
  
"Hey," I say.  
  
"How'd you know I was up here Johnny?" she asks, having come out of the house with some shoes on. Johnny shrugs.  
  
"Educated guess," he says simply. "Well, I think I'll leave you two to do, whatever it was you were doing, before I came," he says, backing towards his car, starts it up, and drives away. Clementine starts to laugh. 


	6. Reeling

uChapter Six: Reeling/u  
  
(She is very purty, Mr. Rainey.)  
  
:::Not again. Fuck those drugs! Clementine!:::  
  
"Clementine," I say.  
  
:::Clementine! No!:::  
  
(Keep your mouth shut, Mr. Rainey. Or I jus' might have to hurt Miss Clementine, here.)  
  
"Mort, what's up with the accent?" she asks.  
  
"This is jus' how I talk, Miss Clementine," I say.  
  
"Shooter," she whispers. She tries to run, but I block her way. She ain't gettin' out a this house now.  
  
"Good guess," I whisper back, jus' inches from her face. "Good guess." (She's a feisty li'l thing, ain't she Mr. Rainey?)  
  
:::You bastard! Let go of her!:::  
  
(Why I ain't touchin' her yet, Mr. Rainey.) I hold her up against the wall of the house and move my head closer.  
  
"Mort," she whispers. I smile, leaning closer. She cracks her forehead on mine, and I reel backwards for a second. But that ain't gonna stop me.  
  
"That was a very, bad, idea, Clementine," I say, advancing on her once again. In the second she had she ran out to the front door, but I got her, jus' before she got there.  
  
:::Shooter! Shooter!:::  
  
(You tryin' to distract me, Mr Rainey? Well that ain't gonna work.) Now we're very close, and I can feel her breathin'.  
  
"You ain't gonna 'scape me, Miss Clementine," I say, pushin' her backwards.  
  
:::Shooter! Shooter!:::  
  
(Clementine's mine, Mr. Rainey.) She takes summat from Mr. Rainey's table and hits me over the head with it. I fall, and she makes her escape. Runs down to her car and drives away, while I watch from the door. Next time, Clementine, next time. You won't be so lucky. 


	7. Waves

Chapter Seven: Waves  
  
I've tried to phone her seven times this morning, and her cell's still off. I don't know where she lives so I can't go and see her, and she won't be working. Bastard Shooter! I run around the house, taking my anger out on material things, and maybe the cat. Why the fuck?  
  
:::I like her, Mr. Rainey. She's purty.:::  
  
(Piss off, Shooter. You've done enough fucking damage!)  
  
:::I like her, Mr. Rainey. I like her more than you do, and I'll have her, one way or another.:::  
  
(What the fuck do you mean by that, Shooter?)  
  
:::Exactly what I said.::: I try her cell again. Nope, no answer. I begin to wonder where she'd be on a Saturday morning, but I suddenly had a huge wave of inspiration, and felt I needed to write.  
  
Three hours later I'd put down three chapters of a new story onto my laptop, and looked up at the clock. I phoned her again, and I got her answerphone. So I left a message asking if she's phone me back.  
  
The phone rings.  
  
"Clementine?" I ask.  
  
"Yes, Mort. It's me, just listen to what I have to say."  
  
"Clementine. . ."  
  
"Mort, I don't think I can do this. I assume that you know I saw Shooter again, I guess you can talk to him when he's you, like he talks to you when you're you, if that makes sense. And, although, God this is so hard. Although, I love you, Mort. I love you so much," she begins to cry. And I'm just about to. "There's something about Shooter, Mort. I can't risk being around when he's there, we can't control him, Mort. There's a couple of things I left at your place when I had to go, so I'm coming round to pick them up, but I won't be staying. I'm so sorry, Mort." She hung up. I'm crying buckets now.  
  
The only person to love me, even to like me, after Amy, was Clementine, and now she's gone. (Now you've scared her away.)  
  
:::She'll be back, Mr. Rainey.:::  
  
(Yeah, Shooter, she's coming round for her stuff.)  
  
:::She won't be leaving.:::  
  
(What the fuck do you mean by that? Shooter!?!) I can't argue, I don't have the energy to argue, I just want to fall asleep, and dream all this away, and, I'll wake up, and none of it would have happened. Shooter wouldn't have attacked Clementine, and she'd be here, with me, like she's supposed to be. I sit down on the couch, my head in my hands, my dressing-gown soaked in tears, and I take off my glasses, and lie back. And softly drift off to sleep.  
  
"Mmpph," I moan. Someone is shaking me awake.  
  
"Mort, wake up!"  
  
"What?" It's Clementine, trying to pull something from under me.  
  
"You're sleeping on my jacket," she says, pulling again, I sit up and she takes it. I get up suddenly.  
  
"Clementine," I say, taking hold of her shoulders. She flinches, so I let go, Shooter must have done that the other night. "Clementine. . ."  
  
"Mort," she turns to the door, her arms laden with things. "Mort, don't say anything. Goodbye." I rush over to her and kiss her, putting my hand up her cheek I can feel tears rolling down her face. She backs away. "I can't do this, Mort. Please, understand."  
  
"Clementine," I put my arm out to her and it touches her clothes. 


	8. Gaspin'

Chapter Eight: Gaspin'  
  
She jus' can't get enough o' me. Back for more so soon? (I was right, Mr. Rainey. She came back. And she ain't never gonna leave, 'cos you ain't taken them pills o' yours, Mr. Rainey. And now I'm here, for good.)  
  
"Mort. Just let me go."  
  
"Let you go? Now why would I ever wanna do that?" I say, slowly tightenin' my grip on her sleeve. "I ain't gonna let you go, missy."  
  
:::Shooter! Just let her go!!:::  
  
(Let her go? You actin' as daft as she is, Mr. Rainey. I can't let her go.)  
  
:::Shooter, please, please let her go!:::  
  
(You soundin' awful sad, Mr. Rainey, awful sad. But you know I can't do what you want me to do. I can't let you have everthin' you want, I want you to know what it's like, bein' in somebody else, day after day, while they get on with their lives, and you can't do nothin'. So now you can jus' sit back, and enjoy what you're about to see, Mr. Rainey. And make sure you remember it, 'cos you're never gonna experience it ever again.) Sure, she looks scared o' me, but she won't be. Not when she knows I'm not gonna hurt her, but I jus' gotta tell her that firs'. Now she's strugglin', but it ain't gettin' her nowhere, I'm not lettin' go o' this chance so soon.  
  
"Miss Clementine, you ain't never known what it feels like to be helpless. To be able to see things, but not do anythin' about them. I'm not gonna hurt you, unless. . ." she cuts me short, kickin' my shins and hittin' out with her arms, and for a while, I was alrigh', I tried to force her down onto the couch, and it took some time, but eventually, she was there, and she was all mine.  
  
"Let me go you sick bastard!" she yells at me. Now, now, we can't be havin' none of that.  
  
"Clementine, the more you struggle, the more I'll hurt you, if you don't move, then we'll both get along peachy." She stares up at me, and sees me thinkin', peachy, that was Mr. Rainey sayin' that. And I can feel him, fightin' inside o' me, no. He's not gonna do that, lets see what he does when he forces me to hurt Miss Clementine. I can see in her eyes she knows Mr. Rainey's lurkin' jus' under the surface, not for long. I take the back o' my hand, and hit it sharply across her face. She puts her hand up to it, and Mr. Rainey's quiet for a moment. But then he's back. (Calm down, Mr. Rainey. The more she struggles, the more she gets hurt, and the more you struggle the more she gets hurt. See? You're never gonna win, 'cos I know you, Mr. Rainey, you love her, and if I threaten her, you won't do nothin' to get in my way.) I sit down on the couch next to Clementine, and move her hand.  
  
"I didn't want to do that to you, but Mr. Rainey made me. If he jus' left us alone we'd be alrigh'."  
  
"Get off me."  
  
"No." She moves her hand up as if to strike me, and I put mine up too, but she doesn't. She kicks my thighs up to the top of my legs, and I have to let her go. But she can't go far. As I try to stand up again, she jumps off the couch and runs towards the back door, which is locked. (Mr. Rainey, you're fightin' again.) I take Clementine's shoulders and push her into the back door, she slumps, and falls. (See what'ya did, Mr. Rainey? You knocked her out.) I tap her face, lightly.  
  
"Come on, Clementine, wake up now."  
  
:::Shooter! Just go, just leave her for fucks sake! Let me back!:::  
  
(Mr. Rainey. I can't do that now. That would be defeat, suicide. You're still fightin').  
  
:::Of course I'm still fighting! I'll fight forever to get you out of my life!:::  
  
(Even if it means hurtin' Miss Clementine here?) I knew that would work. He's quiet. She's still out cold, she ain't gonna be any fun like that. I tap her face again, and she coughs. And again, she struggles, I dunno what I'm gonna do this time, and I won't be held responsible for my actions.  
  
:::What the hell does that mean, Shooter? Just leave her alone, she'll be alright, just go and you won't get caught.:::  
  
(You think I jus' don't wanna be caught, Mr. Rainey? I don't mind if I'm caught, 'cos no one sees me but you, and then when I show up people all think I'm you. So they won't catch me, they'll catch you, Mr. Rainey.)  
  
:::Urgh, Shooter!:::  
  
(You're fightin' me, Mr. Rainey, and you know I don't like it when you're fightin' me. That's better. Now I jus' gotta get your dear friend here to do the same.)  
  
"Shooter, get off me! Let me go!"  
  
"No, I don't think I will, Clementine. You are mine."  
  
"Shooter!" I hold my hand around her neck, and she's quiet, she knows I would. I would.  
  
:::Shooter don't you dare do that!:::  
  
"Mr. Rainey doesn't want me to do this Clementine. But it's exactly that that's makin' me do it, you must understand this, I would never hurt a lady such as yourself. But it's Mr. Rainey that's hurtin' you Clementine, remember that." I push a little on her neck, not enough to cut off her air, but forcefully. She wraps a hand around mine, tryin' to pull it off, I push harder, and she opens and shuts her mouth like a fish gaspin' for water. I'll give her water.  
  
"Shooter!" she screams as I pull her up, and drag her into the kitchen where I turn on the tap, holdin' her hair tightly behind her head.  
  
"Shooter!"  
  
:::Shooter! SHOOTER!!!:::  
  
(I'm sorry, Mr. Rainey. I'm really, sorry.) I turn off the tap, the basin's full. Clementine's not gaspin' anymore, she should be. I grip her throat again.  
  
"Shooter, please, please," she sobs. Right little actress. She ain't getting' away. No matter how hard she cries. She's gaspin' again, and I take that as my cue, forcin' her head under the water. I can see her hands grippin' the side of the sink, and her feet strugglin' to kick me. I pull her head up, water runs off of her hair and she's takin' deep breaths of air.  
  
"That's it, Clementine, take some deep breaths." She continues to do so, and I put her head under again. The kickin' starts, and once she gets my shins, but I don't bring her head up. Then I do, I can't hold her under there for too long.  
  
"You see what happens when you struggle?" She's breathin' too much to answer me, I take a towel from by the side of the sink and hand it to her, she mops her face and tries to dry her hair a li'l, but I'm still holdin' it. "Can I have that back now?" She looks a little nervously at me, she should be nervous, then hands it back. I put her head under once more. I know that was a mean li'l trick to play. (That was really your fault, Mr. Rainey, I wouldn't have given her hope if it hadn't been for you, tryin' to get me to stop. ) After a moment she goes limp. I hold her there for a few seconds more, to make sure she's really dead. I think she is. I pull her out a the sink and she drops to the floor. I feel for her pulse. It's very, very weak, and she's not breathin'. (Well that's that, Mr. Rainey.) 


	9. Salt

Chapter Nine: Salt  
  
I can't look at Clementine. I've got to turn myself in for this. Clementine. I take my dressing-gown and wipe my eyes, but immediately more tears follow. And the worst part of this, is I've got to live with Shooter. I've got to live with him, day after day, knowing what he's done. I don't think I can do that. I hear a soft grunt from behind me, and I turn around so quickly, to see if Clementine's awake. She hasn't moved, the cat's rubbing up against her hips, Eeek must have made the noise. I turn back, my drugs are sitting in front of me on the table. I take one, not that I really need to now, Shooter's destroyed everything that means anything to me. I feel myself sinking into depression. I take another pill, tasting my salty tears as I open my mouth. Shooter. He's ruined my life, and Clementine's life, there's no way I can live with him now. But how can I get rid of him? Take another drug? I do. That's the only thing I can do. 


	10. Movin'

Chapter Ten: Moving  
  
I open my eyes. Where the hell am I? I stare at a white ceiling, and then turn my head. I've got an awful headache. I'm in a hospital, why am I in a hospital? I'm in a room all by myself. There's a card on the board above my head, but I can't move my head from the pain, so I can't see who it's from. A while later it's still plaguing me. Who would send me a card? Who acknowledges I exist anymore? Clementine. Then it all comes flooding back. Shooter. Clementine. I feel the tears behind my eyes now, and it takes all my strength to stop them cascading down my face as I lay in the hospital bed. I really should find out what happened to me, I don't remember anything. Who found me? Who would have come all the way up to my house and cared enough to call 911? Was I even in the house? I look to my side, there's the red call button. I groggily pull an arm above the bed sheets and press the button, then close my eyes. It's a hospital, it'll take a while, maybe someone will have time to come and see me in an hour or two.  
  
The door to the room opens. I don't open my eyes.  
  
"Why am I here?" I ask, turning my head to face the door, eyes still closed.  
  
"You took a drug overdose, Mort," someone says. I recognize that voice at once and my eyes shoot open, and my breath catches in my throat. It's Clementine. She's dressed in a faded pair of jeans with a two-toned pink woolly jumper on, carrying a cup of coffee. I can't hold the tears any longer, although now they are for a different reason, and I let them fall freely down my cheeks.  
  
"Clementine," I manage to whisper. She takes my hand, putting the styrofoam cup down on the table.  
  
"You scared me, Mort."  
  
"I scared you? Clementine, I thought Shooter killed you."  
  
"I thought Shooter killed you. Oh, Mort." She cries too, and buries her head in the blankets on the bed, not letting go of my hand. We simply sit for a while, just in eachothers company. I can't explain the happiness I feel, it's impossible.  
  
"Are you alright? Shooter didn't, do any long term damage?" I ask.  
  
"No, I'm fine. You, however, may be a different matter. We're still waiting for some test results. The doctors think the overdose may have harmed part of your brain, I can't pronounce what that parts called, but they said with other overdoses, they can kill off part of the brain, normally a part that's not used, so you should be alright."  
  
"Clementine, come closer," I say. She does so, leaning towards me. "Closer." I suddenly jerk up and kiss her, putting my other hand behind her head. She kisses back, hungrily.  
  
"I never thought I'd be able to that again," she says when we break apart. "I should be so mad at you, Mort. There was a while back there when thought that you'd never wake up."  
  
"I'm alright. We're both alright."  
  
"Did you see my card?" she asks, taking the card down from the board and giving it to me. "I didn't stay all night, I wanted to, but I was so tired. So I picked it up on the way here this morning." I read the inside of the card.  
  
"Thank you, Clementine," I say, handing it back. "I don't suppose I'll get any others." A doctor comes into the room and we both look towards him, he's carrying a clipboard. Maybe he has news.  
  
"Mr. Rainey," he says.  
  
"That would be me," I reply. Dumbass, of course I'm Mr. Rainey, I'm in his bed aren't I?  
  
"The test results are back. I can tell you that no long term damage has been done that will affect you." Clementine turns from the doctor to smile at me, and I return it. "But, the overdose has affected part of the brain. It's a part not many people use, I won't confuse you with the scientific details, but it's the part more commonly used by children who have an imaginary friend. I see here in your notes that you've been diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, it might affect that."  
  
"How would it affect that? Would it get rid of it? Or would it make the schizophrenia worse?" Clementine asks, a scared tone in her voice.  
  
"Well, the overdose has killed that tiny section of the brain, so it would, we think, stop it." Clementine's sobbing again.  
  
"Thank you so much, doctor," she says. He continues to check things with my notes, and do doctor-y things.  
  
"You hear that Mort? Shooter's gone," says Clementine, delight showing through her voice. The doctor looks up.  
  
"Gone?" he says in a southern Mississippi accent that's not his own. Both Clementine and I look up. "I haven't gone, Mr. Rainey. I've jus' found somewhere else to live." 


End file.
